New guy expresses desire to have babies with Marathi manoos

Latest news indicate that new guy Rahul Gupta, who just moved into Bombay a few weeks ago from Delhi, is so scared that he has been forced to change underwear three times a day, all thanks to the local nut Raj Thackeray. In a press release, the new guy stated that he is all for a Marathi-exclusive state comprising of, but not necessarily limited to the present day Maharashtra. The title of this post is the same as that of the press release, which was disseminated to appease the local Sainik/Sena goons.

In response to Thackeray's "Ask not what I have done for India, ask what YOU have done for Maharashtra", the new guy said that he has already decided to donate his entire monthly stipend to the beggars at Haji Ali (non-Marathi beggars please excuse). "I can get by without a stipend. If not, I can always beg at Haji Ali", he added.

When asked what prompted this press release, his eyes became watery as he recounted the traumatic incidents. "One day, I was making fun of a few Marathi sissies as they were shivering in the 'cold' weather [1], whereas I was sweating even in my shorts. Then another day, I was claiming how it is so difficult to find good North Indian food in this freaking city. I guess someone got tired of all this and reported me to the Sena thugs.", he explained, dejected.

In addition to proclaiming his forced love for Mumbai, Rahul has taken other measures too. His phone calls now always begin with "Mee Rahul bolto", he pronounces Vikhroli as "Vikrodi", and given sufficient alcohol, he can admit that Dada Kondke is his favourite actor.

As we interviewed Rahul at the local bus stop, it was hard to ignore some grim realities in his statement. For example, a Marathi-only signboard to an untrained North Indian eye looks like "woogaboluloooloo", which in this reporter's humble opinion, is a tad difficult to interpret. The interview was cut short, as Rahul ran towards a bus, shouting "Thaamba thaamba!", having failed to read yet another bus number in time.


[1] I was tempted to use the slang for 'cat' but this is a family blog (as I like to believe). Anyway, I think the day Mumbai mirror proudly reported that Mumbai was 0.5 degrees colder than Delhi, millions of Marathi manoos' would have had multiple orgasms. Delhites, on the other hand, just shrugged and dismissed it as a heat wave (the temperature, not the orgasms).

Beware! Hot steamy pile of .... ahead!

“IBM is driven by a high-performance culture, a place where employees are able to contribute at the upper limits of their potential and continually build market-valued skills and capabilities in both formal training and experiential learning. In support of that expectation on the part of our workforce, we are pioneering new ways for our people to certify their skill levels as both a validation of their value to clients and to reinforce the quality of our employees’ personal skill sets.”

A management drone from IBM made this comment after IBM fired 700 fresh employees (article). They say that life evolved from single cell organisms. Empty-headed jargon-belching retards are clearly the missing links in this chain of evolution.

And being an ex-IBMer (no, I wasn't one of the illustrious 700), I can say that the jargon quoted above is at par with what a sample MBA-holding can't-tell-his-head-from-his-ass manager would say on an off day.

Phew! feels good to get all that venom out!

Of knees and news

My situation in the past few weeks can be summed up by the following two lines: (with apologies to EUPHORIA)

Seedhiyaan jab chadhta hoon to roti halke halke, my knee
Ab kya karoooon, kaise chaloooon, myyyy kneeeeee

Yes, a few days ago, I hurt my knee ligament real bad while running the Bangalore Ultra 26k race, which explains the lack of "thought-provoking" posts from my side. To top it all, the specialist has given me roughly two quintals of medicines to be consumed in a week. Most of them are the usual puke-inducing fare, but one of them is a "protein supplement".

The "protein supplement" is a powder containing a whole variety of metals, including some Uranium ore if I am not wrong. The whole amalgam is "chocolate flavoured", which means that it tastes somewhere between a damp shoe and a rotten cabbage.

But enough about injuries and medicines. I am writing this monthly post to inform you all about some news in my life. No, I have not been declared pre-approved for a loan, nor have I "already won" any fabulous prizes. It so happened that a few weeks ago I was caught watching pornography at work, that too on a porn web-site not approved by the company. Consequently, I have been shown the door, and because of my stellar surfing record, no other company would hire me.

Yes, thats right, I am packing my bags in Delhi and arriving in Bombay for good as a full-time PhD student. Boy! I can't wait to go through the college's list of approved porn-sites! The decision for a permanent shift to Bombay has been a well thought out one after weighing the pros and cons.

Pros
1. An online collection of movies to watch, that too on a 21" monitor.
2. No need for a daily bath.

Cons
1. Stipend just enough to purchase a month's supply of soaps. (see pt 2 above)
2. Hostel room not much larger than a coffin for a midget.
3. M*%$@#-F%$#^%g humidity.

As you can see, the pros outweighed the cons.

Inshallah! my next post will be from the ultra-happening suburb of Powai.

AC-3 or AC third class

DELHI (19 Nov) I bet you know I am pissed off because this post is being written after 1 am. I can't shake off the feeling that the Indian Railways with its offering of "the mo*^%&#-f$%^#ing AC-3 tier coach", along with my co-passengers, is out to screw me, have a smoke, then come back to screw me again. I present the following evidences:

1. The compartment, including the side berths, is meant to seat eight. However the passengers in my compartment have approximately 287 people to see them off. And they all squeeze in or stand in the aisle, leaving no room for genuine passengers. All of them wait till the last millisecond before getting off the train. This is accompanied by shrieks of "arey train chal padi!!", as if we paid all that money to go sit in a stationary claustrophobic cell.

2. Atleast one person attempts to swap seats. He offers a seat, usually a middle berth (Murphy's law) in a compartment 20 coaches away, or sometimes in the adjacent train. "Travelling together" is a big deal even in the night trains. If there is no such person, nocturnal predators with wait-listed tickets are usually on the prowl for confirmed ticket holders who can "adjust" for a few hours. Since I am a bachelor with the innocent face of a sucker, I can't escape being gang-adjusted repeatedly by a series of wait-listers. My medical results reveal that I may never recover from this severe trauma.

3. Atleast one of the co-passengers carries luggage that will put an Antarctic expedition to shame. Consequently, the entire floor space plus halves of two berths and the aisle become full, allowing only someone with the skill-level of Bob Beamon to make it across to the bathroom. Oh! and needless to say, all that hunk of luggage will not have a single book to read on the way, except "Stardust" which will be over by the time the train pulls out of the platform.

4. The presence of atleast one baby in my compartment is mandatory. And if the baby's bawling and howling is insufficient, the parents make repairs by throwing in some brain-dead baby talk. The baby talk comprises of atmost three sentences of the kind "Ale Ale Ale baby kyon lo laha hai...", "deko deko bahar doggie hai cow hai pigeon hai...aley waah aley waah" and "chalo mamma paas chalenge, abhi beta soyega, raaja beta soyega" and so forth. These three sentences will be repeated in an infinite loop until the mother dies of dehydration or I puncture my ear drums, whichever happens first. If the baby talk does not suffice, the dad usually initiates a suave and sophisticated game, like pulling a coin out of the baby's ass, thus cementing his skills as a magician, and the kid becomes all wonder-eyed thinking "Holy Shit! My ass did that ??" With all this talk of babies, I'm tempted to use the pun "berth control" here but I am sure it has been used a million times already.

5. The person on the lower berth feels "sleepy" at 8:30pm, just two seconds after s/he finishes dinner, forcing the others to retire. Unless I am the lower berth owner, in which case, I won't be allowed to sleep before 2:30am. Even then, a group of wait-listers will suddenly materialize to sleep in the aisle, thereby giving a new meaning to "sleepovers". (Question: Is throwing bread crumbs at the bums sleeping on the floor impolite? More importantly, should I use brown bread?)

6. The person on the middle berth will sleep the longest, turning the rest of us into Hunchbacks of Notre Dame. On being woken up, he/she will generally give an Oscar winning "oh am I causing any trouble" look. The rest of us have, ofcourse, already been woken up by the obnoxious tea seller at 5:45am, who usually passes on secret information of the kind "abhi Aligarh cross kiya hai" along with the freaking mud water that passes for tea.

7. All the bathrooms will be occupied till 2pm, so the elderly uncle will lose all pretense of good manners, and will let loose the dogs of hell, otherwise known as the farting guns of Navarone. While the more adventurous of us can start guessing which pickle did uncleji have with aalo and rajma last night, I prefer to lean outside the door, looking for the next electric pole to bang my head into.

8. Needless to say, a delay by a few hours is to be expected. For example, my "superfast express train" after Diwali took 21 instead of 14 hrs, and this was a good day I was told. The last 20 kms took more than two hours. Hell! I could have run faster than that. Shameless self-advertising ends here.

Next time, I am travelling in the cargo hold of the first airplane that I see.

I finished the marathon and all I got was a lousy pair of shoes

DELHI (31 Oct): 2 hrs and 7 mins (my best so far), and could have been easily reduced to 2 hrs if my new shoes had cleared the training runs.

Kids, we all learnt a lesson on the 28th. Never, never run a long distance race with worn out shoes, no matter how well they have served you in the past. My legs are still fatigued from the race.

Rants apart, this was a nice race, with a different route -- Chanakyapuri - Safdarjung Flyover - Prithviraaj Road - India Gate - Rajpath and back. The crowd was bigger, with more serious runners. There were a lot of first timers too -- Girish, Nitendra and Shantanu included. Nitendra got his picture in the paper (bib no. 3621), and is now contemplating modeling for Jockey and Rayban.

All was not hunky dory though. With idiots like Vodafone and Indiatimes managing the event, thousands of finishers had to stand in the queue for another 2 hrs before they could get their timing certificates and medals.

To make up for the boring marathon details, I leave you now with two yummilicious and totally unrelated pictures:


The dishes in front are ofcourse RajKachori (left) and Paapri-chaat (right). The ones in the background are not Chhole Bhature, but an awesome Bengali dish called RadhaBallavi (I hope I got the spelling right). The side dish is Dum Aaloo with a mouth watering gravy. All this food is courtesy the Delhi and Bengal food stalls at Dilli Haat.


Exhibit number 2 comprises of Jalebis from a hole-in-the-wall shop in Chandni Chowk (Old Delhi). It is the area's most open secret. The finger puts the thickness of the jalebi in perspective. It is the tastiest jalebi I have ever eaten, and its no wonder that a single piece (which is huge and very fulfilling) costs around 20 bucks. As a friend from Bombay put it -- it feels like a couple of gulabjamuns have exploded in your mouth.


Now would be a good time to wipe all that drool from your shirt.

Update: I have been threatened to acknowledge the sources of the photos. The Dilli Haat pic was taken by GoldenSilence and the Jalebi pic was taken by the Goan Bird.

Blogger contemplates confronting Bengali colleague regarding nuke deal stand-off

DELHI (Oct 7): Sources reveal that in an act of unprecedented stereotyping, local lad Rahul Gupta contemplates confronting one of his Bengali colleagues to get to the root of the UPA-communist nuke deal stand-off.

"I want nuclear energy and I want it now. I can't wait for these sissies to chalk out a compromise. I want to know whats bothering these goddamn communists", gushes the blogger.

He thinks that the logical next step is to contact a Bengali, who alone can "explain things as they stand, along with their reasons" (sic). Apparently this statement has caused a lot of grief to his Malyali colleagues who are feeling left out inspite of being communists. "Well lets face it. Keralites are busy dumping hair oil on their scalps and eating beef all day long. Even a monkey can argue better than them!", justifies Rahul.

He goes on to list the names of his various Bengali friends, who are top targets for his machinations -- Debojyoti, Sushrut and a fellow known only as 'Sarkar' (real names hidden to protect the victims). However, he knows that arguing with Bengalis is tougher than beating Australia in one-day matches.

"I want to equal their intellectual levels before I discuss this issue, so I have started doing Bengali stuff -- staging rallies, leaving work at 2 pm, swimming in the local pond to catch fresh water fish, and increasing my decibel level and blood pressure to 200 during arguments about football/cricket", he says as he describes the preliminary qualifying procedure for debating with a Bengali.

Well, whatever his means are, we wish this local nut the best of luck in his endeavours. He is going to need it. No one has ever survived a debate with a Bengali and lived on to tell the tale.

UPDATE: As this article was going to the press, we received news that the much anticipated confrontation indeed took place at the office coffee machine after lunch break. After a tireless and commendable effort by the blogger, his bemused Bengali colleague just asked him to get the hell out of there, go plough a field, commit female foeticide or join the army or do whatever it is that Haryanvis are supposed to do.

US finally overtakes Nigeria

DELHI (28 Sep): Although it may seem like I have lost all hope with this world we live in, some events shock you to the very core and turn your beliefs upside down. As a magnanimous gesture of philanthropy, I received this email, which I present in its entirety. I know, I might not be the lone recipient of such a gift, but please, let me savour this moment while it lasts.

From Us Military Base
Iraq(Baghdad)2007


Hello Dear
My name is Sgnt David Hill. I am an American soldier, serving in the military with the Third (3rd) infantry Division in Iraq . I and my superior after going on a rampage on Saddam Hussein's palace in Baghdad we discovered a large container where various denominations of currency worth millions are hidden.

You can enter the below website to confirm more of our discovery which was made known to the government, but this particular one is a top secret:http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/middle_east/2988455.stm
Having discovered the container in question, I alerted my superior officer who smartly told me to cart away a substantial amount. The fund in question was moved to a secure place with the assistance of our contact person in United Kingdom .

Family Doctor of our British military colleague); the total is $25,000,000.00 (Twenty-five million US dollars). Basically since we are still in active service, we cannot keep this fund in our bank accounts. It is on this juncture that I was mandated by my superior to look for a reliable and trustworthy person who could assist us to receive the fund on our behalf for investment purposes. Hence, my contacting you.

There is no risk involved whatsoever. If you are interested, I will send you more instructions on how to get the money. My duty is to find a good partner that we can trust and that will assist us secure the fund. Can I trust you? To ensure confidentiality, when you receive this letter, kindly reply our Family Doctor in london Mr Johnson cole with the information Email: johnsoncole_442@rediffmail.com Please Remember To Submitt Your Full Name/Address/Age/Occupation/Phone Number To Him

Thanks
Sgnt David Hill
In God We Trust

My respect for Sergeants has grown exponentially since the day I saw Sgt. Hartman shot at point blank range in Full Metal Jacket. So when an army Sergeant beckons and beseeches and uses some more "be-" words, I listen. But "be-"fore I proceed with sending my details, I need to iron out a few doubts and clarify my stand.

1. I am a big fan of rampages, and the looting and pillaging that goes with it. No problems here, we see eye to eye in this matter. I unearthed lots of treasures the last time I went on a rampage, although later it turned out that it was my own house.
2. In God I do not trust. But, as mentioned before, in rampages I do.
3. The top secret findings of your 'rampage' are made available on BBC's website. I find all this, as Britishers would say, particularly singular.
   
4. For an American, your English is not too impressive. Maybe it is years of eating those "Freedom Fries" and hamburgers, that has successfully removed a big chunk of your brain. Such poor use of grammar and vocabulary is more suited to, lets say, an Indian H1-holding software engineer living in New Jersey¹.
   
5. When I saw the photograph, which is an irrefutable proof of the veracity of this rampaging operation, I almost sent all the details you had asked for, before I realized that the rampager in the picture is some Lt. King. That is very naughty of you Sgt. Hill, unless you go as Lt. King during daytime.
6. I am touched that you might consider me as a partner. Your God knows how much have I desired a partner, preferably of the opposite gender.
7. Another singular observation, which makes it plural now, is that your family doctor possesses a rediffmail address. I expected something better, or more 'British'. Atleast a yahoo.co.uk.

So until I get these doubts cleared, my dear Sgt. Hill/Lt. King, I will keep my details and my initial monetary contribution (which, no doubt, you will ask for later) to myself.

Have fun fighting the Iraqis, and carry on with the rampaging,
Rahul

¹ To all my desi friends in Jersey, please to be forgiving me for my remark. A thousand apologies to you. Thank you! come again!